


Needs more pomegranate

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 80s buddy cop movie, Angst, Crowley Has a Heart, Crowley and Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Guilty Castiel, Hair, Hair stroking, I like that new tag, M/M, Season/Series 12, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection, why is there not more S12 Crowstiel already?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: S12. Behind the scenes of a buddy cop movie. Very vague spoilers up to S12E07.Castiel is guilty. Crowley is already over it.





	

 “…can’t even mix a decent Mary Pickford this lousy century. Pomegranate it’s meant to taste of, not sodding E-numbers. It’s basically sugar, now tell me, how in Hades does one manage to balls-up sug-”

“Crowley, _shut up_.”

Crowley fixes him with a decidedly unrepentant _well, excuse me, I’m sure_ look, then goes back to sipping his pink cocktail and grimacing. He doesn’t even look a bit surprised, or a bit offended, not really – Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He has a headache. Angels do not get headaches. But here he is, defying the odds again, as if humanity is a slow-growing infection that’s determined to assimilate them all. And here he is, just like a human, snapping at Crowley for his – admittedly maddening – incessant, banal chatter, because if Castiel really admits the truth to himself, he’s just jealous that Crowley can still seemingly care about things as inconsequential as the quality of the flavoured syrup in his ridiculous drink. He glances again at the demon at his side, who is now frowning down at a cocktail menu, his chin propped in his hand. Something twinges inside him. The once-king - who still refuses to refer to himself as anything _but_ king - always trying to make the most of whatever situation is thrust upon him. Castiel’s voice is quiet: “I’m sorry.”

“Hmmm? What was that?”

“I’m not repeating it, you ass.”

“Aw. Love you too, Feathers.” Crowley says, without so much as sparing him a glance, and the guilty little seed cracks into a guilty kind of anger.

“Why are you _like_ this?”

Crowley does glance up at him, then, amusement sparking in his eyes at the anger creeping into Castiel’s tone. “Like what? Witty, debonair, sexy? I just can’t help it, it’s a curse.”

“ _Exactly_ like that.” Perhaps that was the wrong wording. Castiel soldiers on. “Always acting as if nothing has happened.” He drops his voice further, stepping away from the bar to a darker corner, out of accidental human earshot, so that Crowley has to hop down from his barstool and follow. “Lucifer is free. We had him; we lost him: we had him; we lost him again. He’s too strong for us, Crowley. And all you can think to converse about is fruit syrup.”

“Life goes on, love.” Crowley barely raises a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. Castiel can hardly bear it.

“Why are you still here? I am not your ‘love’. We are not ‘inseparable’.” Never have air quotes been more vicious. “We are not even _friends_.”

A gracefully theatrical hand over where his heart should be: even Crowley’s little stagger backwards is dripping in perfectly executed stage-mockery. But Castiel realises that he now knows the demon well enough to recognise the real hurt hidden deep in his eyes, even as Crowley’s drawl is as insincere as ever. “I’m a big boy, slugger, you don’t have to pull your punches for little ol’ me.”

The headache behind Castiel’s eyes spreads its fingers and squeezes. With an exasperated huff, he bounces down onto the sagging couch behind him and buries his face in his palms. “How can you even stand to be around this vessel? Around _me_.”

“Seems to me that I’m not the one with a problem with it.” Crowley says, softly. Castiel grunts, frustrated. Tightens his hands against his forehead as if his corporeal fingers can somehow throttle the elusive fingers of pain inside. His entire physical form feels like a fist, clenched painfully tight but with nothing to hit.

He flinches at the first touch. It’s too soft to be threatening, but the unwanted, second-hand memories it brings up blindside him like a tsunami. He doesn’t open his eyes but he knows: Crowley’s fingertips, stroking carefully at his hair. His shoulders thrum with tension. There’s the alien feeling of somebody standing, solid and warm, too close: perhaps this is what Dean always meant about personal space. Crowley doesn’t stop, just the tips of his fingers carding cautiously, but he doesn’t push either. And when the initial element of wary surprise recedes, Castiel exhales a long, shuddering breath and some of the clenched-tight feeling seems to go with it. Crowley’s fingers push deeper, grazing his scalp, nudging at the throbbing-tight ache. When Castiel leans his head into the touch, it feels like the wave breaking: Crowley pulls him into an awkward kind of hug, the wool of his overcoat rough against Castiel’s cheek. Castiel doesn’t know what to do with his hands. But it feels comforting somehow. Like they’re forgiving each other: and God knows that Castiel needs more forgiveness in his existence. He still has his eyes closed when Crowley sits beside him, but it feels almost restful now, instead of his eyelids being screwed tight shut. “You’re wrong, you know.” Crowley’s voice is a deep buzz as he encourages Castiel to rest his head against his chest. And it’s a secluded corner and the bar is mostly empty but Castiel wonders briefly if anybody can see and realises immediately that he doesn’t even care. His vessel sags against Crowley’s. Lately, he’s been craving – not sleep, precisely, but rest. Like a battery topped up too often that can no longer properly hold a charge. He’s tired. Crowley’s fingers through his hair are confident now: tender and rhythmic and soothing, stroking the pain away. “You are.” Crowley murmurs, his voice gentle as his touch. And Castiel doesn’t want to think yet what he means by that.

**Author's Note:**

> The person who this is for knows who they are xxx


End file.
